Shadows of the Dark Lord
by hid6qoh
Summary: After nineteen, peaceful years, the nightmares are back. The old ones; a flash of green light, a woman's scream, a high, cold laugh...they torment Harry's dreams. After all this time, after nineteen years - could the Dark Lord be returning?
1. Prologue

The nightmares were back.

At first, it was the old dream. The oldest dream. A woman screaming, a high, cold laugh, a blinding flash of green light - Harry had woken with a start. For the first time in nineteen years, his scar was prickling with pain. Harry did his best to ignore it. _It doesn't mean anything_, he told himself firmly.

The next night, he had dreamt of a glinting, blood-red stone, and a man with two faces. _Stress_, he told himself. The next, a black diary, a fifty-year old boy, and a pair of piercing yellow eyes haunted his dreams. _Dreams. They're just dreams_, he had reassured himself. _Last week you had a dream that a fifty-foot tall Chocolate Frog was trying to eat you. It's nothing. Just dreams…_

The next night, Harry was back in the graveyard. _Kill the spare_, he heard the cry; a brilliant flash of green light, a glinting knife, a grunt of pain - and the Dark Lord was reborn. Pale spidery hands had reached out for him-

The next day, Harry went to see Dumbledore. The old man had been baffled. _Mere echoes_; that was all Dumbledore could suggest. Curses such as Voldemort's never _truly _healed, after all; these were simply the faintest of ripples on a still surface. What could he do, Harry had asked desperately. He knew, if something were not done, there would be more dreams to come. Painful dreams.

But Dumbledore could suggest nothing.

A glutton of death awaited Harry that night. Sirius, slipping behind the veil; Dumbledore himself, blasted off the Astronomy Tower; his killer, Severus Snape, his life flowing out of him through a hundred wounds; Mad-Eye Moody, Remus, Tonks, Fred…more faces than Harry could count.

After that night, Harry was afraid to sleep.

But, the next night, there was nothing. No old friends awaited Harry in his dreams; no family, no parents, murdered before Harry's eyes for the thousandth time. Harry had a peaceful, uninterrupted night's sleep; afterwards, he scolded himself for his panic. Voldemort was gone; all was well.

It was two weeks later that Harry first dreamt of the tower. A jagged, charcoal-black tower, jutting from an outcrop of sea-blasted stone. Now, it was the tower that dominated Harry's dreams; soon, it consumed his waking moments as well. He grew obsessed; every time he closed his eyes, the tower was there. Every time he blinked, every time his thoughts strayed, every moment alone…

It had taken him months to find it.

Harry's feet landed on cold, black stone. Icy sea-spray stung his face as he stared, disbelieving, at the tower before him. _It's real._ It rose out of the rock like some twisted, monstrous flower; it seemed almost organic, ebbing here, flowing there. Parts of it were smooth, sleek, reflective; elsewhere were razor-sharp edges. The tower was charcoal-black, starkly silhouetted against the roiling, blue-grey sky. Electric-blue lightning crackled menacingly above Harry's head, but he paid it no heed. The real danger, his instincts told him, lay inside.

It was beginning to rain. Harry hurried forward towards the tower, threading his way through a knee-high maze of jagged stone. The tower stood, alone, on this lonely outcrop - the mainland, barely visible through the rising, rainy haze, was miles away. Fishing boats occasionally passed by; however, Harry half-suspected that only he could see the tower. As he approached, the tower seemed to grow, looming over him like Hagrid at a funeral. Except not like that- because the tower was _wrong._ It seemed to radiate darkness - as Harry stepped forward into its shadow, he felt a familiar, unpleasant feeling; it was if, once again, he wore Voldemort's Horcrux around his neck. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

There was no entrance. Harry circled the tower once, twice, three times, but there was no opening; just smooth black stone. When he circled back into the tower's shadow for the fourth time, Harry stopped. Tentatively, he stretched out a hand, placing his palm against the base of the tower. It was cold, surprisingly cold; when he pulled his hand away, an icy palm-print remained on the stone. _Open_, he tried to hiss in Parseltongue, but the words didn't come. That part of him - the part of Voldemort, embedded within Harry's soul - was gone, Harry reminded himself. So how was he going to get in?

If only Hermione, or Dumbledore were here…_Dumbledore_, he thought suddenly. This - the fluid, flowing black stone, the energy-sapping cold, the reek of Dark magic in the air - called to mind a similar situation; the cave, so long ago now. What was it Dumbledore had said? _How crude_… with a flick of his wand, Harry conjured a knife from mid-air. Taking it in his left hand, he carved a thin slash in his palm. As the blood began to trickle onto the stone below, he wiped his hand across the stony surface of the tower.

The stone melted away before Harry, revealing a pitch-black passageway. As Harry took an uneasy step forward, eerie-green lamps flickered into life, lighting his way into the depths of the tower. No steps led upwards, he noticed, stepping forward cautiously. The only way seemed to be…down. In the flickering half-light of the lamps, Harry could now see the patterns on the grey-stone walls; the decorative theme seemed to be snakes. _Lots of snakes._ Was he imagining it, he thought suddenly, or could he hear hissing? He was imagining it, he decided quickly. However - as a precaution - he pulled out his wand. The warm, white light it cast immediately eased Harry's nerves, as he descended into the bowels of the tower.

There were no doors. As Harry glanced from side to side, he saw nothing but stone. Not one room. Not a kitchen, nor a bedroom, nor even a broom cupboard. Nothing. Harry was beginning to suspect that Voldemort - for it was surely he who had built this tower - had had a very definite purpose in mind when he raised this monstrosity. And, Harry thought, he had the uneasy feeling that, whatever that purpose was, it was awaiting him at the end of this passageway. Still, he pressed on, ignoring the ever-louder hisses that seemed to reverberate from the very walls. Voldemort was dead, he told himself. What did he have to fear?

He soon found out. As he paced along the passageway, he felt a sudden, icy gust of wind, like breath on his face. As the wind _hissed _by, the flickering-green lamps suddenly winked out. _That's OK,_ Harry told himself, _as long as I have my _- another hiss. Another breath of wind. And, suddenly, Harry's wand-light was snuffed out.

Darkness. But not silence. The _hissing_ was growing louder. It was difficult to tell, in the disorientating darkness, but Harry thought the snake was behind him. And it was getting closer. He had no choice - he began to walk forward, blindly stretching his arms out in front of him in the darkness. Harry lost all sense of time - what reference did he have? He kept walking forward, the _hissing _grew louder, and louder, and louder, and the darkness remained impenetrable.

Suddenly, Harry's hand closed upon something soft. Unable to stifle a surprised yell, Harry leaped back in panic. Instantly, the _hissing_ silenced. A sigh of breath on the nape of Harry's neck - and the lamps winked back on. He stood in a grand, subterranean chamber. The walls, composed of the same organic, flowing stone as the tower, reached up to a distant, stalactite-strewn ceiling. From the ceiling, a colossal, limestone snake slithered down the walls, encircling the room, twisting its way down towards the ground. In the centre of the chamber was the head of the snake, massive jaws spread wide. Chained in the jaws of the snake was a boy.

Harry recognised him. Beneath a mop of jet-black air, the boy was pale-skinned. While young - no older than twelve - his handsome looks were already evident. His hands weren't yet the pale spiders they would become; nor was the nose reduced to a mere snake-like slit - but the _eyes_…red, cat-like slits, they stared blankly into space. Harry had seen this boy before - in a memory. This was Tom Riddle. What on earth was he going to do?


	2. The Riddle Trial

"He's feral, Hermione."

"Feral?"

"Yes," Harry replied simply. "He doesn't speak a word of English. I don't think he even understands what's happening. He just-" Harry glanced over his shoulder towards the black-haired boy; he sat, still, in the corner of Hermione's office, staring blankly into space with those unsettling scarlet eyes of his.

"He just does _that_," Harry finished, frowning. "Hermione, I have no idea what we're going to do."

Hermione, sitting at her desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, took a long time to respond; her eyes were narrowed in thought, her features fixed in a steely, expressionless mask. Harry began to panic. He'd been sure Hermione would understand, that she would help him. But what if she didn't?

"Hermione-"

"Tell me again how it happened," Hermione said suddenly, cutting smoothly over Harry. "How you found him."

"There's not much more to tell," said Harry, shrugging helplessly. Actually, that was a lie; he hadn't told Hermione about the visions he'd had. He had a feeling she might frown on those.

"So you find this tower..." prompted Hermione.

"Based on a source's tip off," lied Harry. "I can't tell you who, you know how it is."

"I understand," she sighed. "You Aurors and your secrets. Go on."

"So I go into the tower, all the way to the bottom – or the top, I couldn't really tell, it was dark – and I found him there, chained up. He was in some sort of sleeping trance. So I untied his chains-"

"Breaking the trance," Hermione surmised.

"Yeah. He woke up. He didn't say anything, though. Just stood there, staring at me with those eyes of his."

Harry stole another glance at the boy behind him. This time, however, the boy met his gaze, his pale, pallid face turning slowly to face Harry's own. Harry winced as the boy's scarlet eyes swept over him. Instinctively, his hand rose to rub his scar soothingly.

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked immediately. "Is your scar hurting again?"

"No, it's just-" Harry turned away from the boy. He lowered his voice. "Just when he looks at me."

Hermione stared at the boy for a long moment, her lips pursed in worry in a very Mrs. Weasley-ish manner. Harry didn't dare mention it to her.

"I think," Hermione said eventually, "that we don't know nearly enough to even _start_ discussing what to do with him. I mean, do we know how he was created? _Who_ created him? How long was he in that tower? Can he speak? Can he think? Is he a separate entity, or is he like a Horcrux – just another part of Voldemort's soul? Is he dangerous?"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry mumbled weakly.

"Neither do I, Harry," Hermione replied, worried. "This is bigger than you or I. Bigger than the Minister. This has to go to the Wizengamot."

"Hermione - the Wizengamot?" Harry spluttered. "You really think that's the best idea? I mean, _Malfoy_ is on the Wizengamot! Zabini, too. You want to put a young boy in front of _that_?"

"I don't think we have a choice," Hermione said calmly. "No more secrets, that's what we said when we joined the Ministry. Well, it's time to stick to that."

"Hermione..." despite it all, Harry felt himself smiling. "Do you always have to be so _principled_?"

Hermione, too, smiled.

"This is the best way, Harry. If we try to do this secretly – if word were to get out that we're sneaking Voldemort's _son_ around the Ministry..."

"I don't think he's Voldemort's son," Harry said thoughtfully. "He didn't seem like the fatherly type."

Hermione smiled again.

"No, he did not." She squeezed Harry's arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, Harry. It'll all come out in front of the Wizengamot. We'll do right by him."

She stood up.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go see the Minister."

"Hermione?" Harry asked softly as she turned away.

"Yes, Harry?" she called, glancing over her shoulder towards him.

"How do you think they'll react? The Wizengamot, I mean."

She smiled thinly.

"Not well, I imagine. But we have to try."

She turned away. As she walked out, Harry couldn't help but notice the boy's scarlet eyes follow Hermione out of the room. No,_ not the boy_, he thought suddenly. _Tom._

What was he? He was sure that Tom was not Voldemort's son. Harry doubted whether Voldemort had ever wanted anything besides power. Still, the connection was undeniable...perhaps some sort of experiment gone wrong? Voldemort had always claimed to have 'pushed the boundaries of magic'; could he have created Tom? It was certainly possible. Why was Tom locked up in that tower, though? And why was he still a child when Voldemort died nineteen years ago?

If Tom was an accident, why did Voldemort allow him to live?

* * *

The black-haired boy was scared. He had been asleep for so, so long, curled up in the comforting coils of his dreams; dreams of hooded men, and skulls in the sky; but now, for the first time in his life, he was awake. He was alive. Alive, awake - but still chained. They coiled around his wrists, harsh, cold works of metal digging into his skin, drawing blood. For the hundredth time, he tried to loosen the chains slightly; immediately, they contracted, and the boy winced. _Curious,_ he thought. The chains almost seemed to know his intentions; it was almost like – no, it couldn't be.

It wasn't the chains that frightened the boy, however. It wasn't even being alive. It was the people. They sat on grand, circular stone benches, hundreds of them, rising up, and up, and up, staring at the boy as if he were some caged animal. He could see their revulsion; they hated him. Feared him. They jabbered to themselves in some language the boy did not know, but the meaning of their whispers was evident; they were discussing him.

They stared down at the boy; he stared back. His scarlet gaze found a middle-aged man, with receding, white-blonde hair and a pale, pointed face. When their eyes met, the man's face whitened, and he hurriedly looked away, striking up a conversation with the red-haired, freckle-faced woman next to him. Or at least, attempted to. The boy smirked as the red-haired woman turned away, her arms crossed. Their eyes met for a second; her face betrayed no signs of fear, but the boy saw her grip tighten slightly, her knuckles whiten.

They did impossible things, these people. One man, using only a thin stick of wood, had transformed a sheet of parchment into a cushion. Others had appeared from thin air. How was it possible? Most of the people wore deep-plum robes; all wore a glinting, silver pin on their chest. The boy couldn't quite make out what the pin was. It was clearly important, though. For a moment, the boy wondered if he were wearing a pin. He looked down. No pin.

Movement caught the boy's eye. Behind him, three people swept into the room; they looked important. Two, he recognised; one, he didn't. At the head of the trio was an elderly, dark-skinned man; he wore a golden earring in his ear. He was conversing quietly with the man to his left; the thin, black-haired man with piercing green eyes who had brought the boy here. He had the most curious scar on his forehead, almost like a bolt of lightning -

Abruptly, the black-haired man's green eyes flitted towards the boy's red slits. The black-haired man winced; in a well-practiced movement, he rubbed his scar gently. The third new arrival – the bushy-haired woman, dressed in deep-blue robes – muttered a concerned word, but the black-haired man waved off her worries. Together, the trio took seats at the very front of the dungeon.

The bushy-haired woman leaned forward, eyeing the boy with an unabashedly curious – yet sympathetic – gaze. She tapped a thin stick of wood lightly against the table before her.

"Order!" she called softly. Instantly, the low murmurs echoing around the dungeon subsided. A young man, sitting in the front row, began to scrawl furiously on a piece of parchment. The boy, of course, didn't understand a word.

"The Wizengamot has been convened today," the bushy-haired woman continued, "at Mr. Potter's urgent request; thank you all for coming."

She turned to face the still-scribbling young man.

"Interrogators; Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; Hermione Jean Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harry James Potter, Head of the Auror Office. We're here today to hear the case of Mr. - er -"

She gestured towards the boy with a lazy flick of her wooden stick.

"Mr. Riddle here," Granger finished rather tamely.

A moment's silence.

"Riddle?" one man murmured.

"No - he can't be-" muttered another.

Granger took a deep breath.

"This boy here-"

She was interrupted by a host of panicked shouts.

"How can he be alive?"

"He can't be back!"

"AAAAAARRGHHHH!"

The court descended into uproar. Some shouted, some screamed; a few fled, twisting into mid-air and disappearing.

The boy found this all rather amusing. All this fuss over him? He wasn't sure what he was supposed to have done that was so fearsome, but it must have been bad.

* * *

"Order!" Hermione shouted, again and again, in a futile attempt to forestall the chaos that had overcome the courtroom. Half the Wizengamot were on their feet, wands out; some were battling their way towards the exits, while a few - led by Malfoy, of course - were actually forcing their way _downwards_! Towards Tom! _Ginny is here somewhere_, he thought in a sudden, panicked rush, _where is she_ - and then he saw it. In the corner of his eye, Harry saw an unfamiliar, brown-haired woman level her wand towards Tom. Too late, Harry reached for his own wand.

Thankfully, Kingsley was already on his feet. His voice boomed a complicated, unfamiliar incantation; Harry felt a violent, sweeping pulse emanate from the Minister's wand. It knocked him to the floor; it had a similar effect on the rest of the Wizengamot, scattering the frantic crowds. When Harry, groaning, returned to his seat, Kingsley was addressing the court.

"Enough!" he snapped. "You will return to your seats, or I will have Madam Granger charge every single one of you with contempt of court. And-" he glared at the brown-haired woman- "In case any of you get any ideas..."

He flicked his wand; the air around Tom's chair shimmered for a second. Everyone in the room recognised a Shield Charm when they saw one.

"Now," Kingsley continued, "Madam Granger will continue with proceedings."

The Minister returned to his seat. For a moment, tiredness seemed to overcome him; only Harry noticed. The effort to subdue the court must have shaken the ageing Minister for Magic.

Hesitantly, Hermione returned to her feet.

"Let me make it clear to you; this is _not_ Lord Voldemort."

Even now, half the court winced at the mere mention of the name. Frowning slightly, Hermione continued.

"He's not Lord Voldemort; what he is is a confused, scared young boy. I don't know _how_ he is here; whether he is Voldemort's son, or some twisted creation of Dark Magic -"

She was interrupted by a mocking laugh from the audience. All eyes darted towards the speaker, standing in the third row.

"Something to say, Draco?" Harry asked politely.

"Listen to yourselves!" Malfoy sneered. "Talking about-" he glanced at Tom- "Talking about_ him_ like's he's some innocent little boy. He's the Dark Lord!"

Worryingly, there were approving nods from some members of the courtroom. Emboldened, Malfoy continued. He pointed at Tom.

"That's the Dark Lord, right there!" he repeated. "His body! What if this is just another plan of his? What if he's _in there right now_? What if this boy shares the mind?"

"He doesn't-" Hermione began.

"The brilliance!" Malfoy interrupted. "The madness! The-" he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper- "The _urges_."

He pointed at Tom.

"I say we kill him."

"This is _not_ a criminal trial, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "Tom is not on trial, not for murder, or arson, or whatever else you want to pin on him! He's not going to be executed for the crime of looking like Lord Voldemort! We're here to debate the issue, not sentence him to death."

"Let's debate then," Malfoy retaliated sharply. He mimicked Hermione's tone. "He's too dangerous to be left alive. Discuss."

Hermione glared at Malfoy.

"I-"

She fell silent as Tom began to scream.

Once more, the courtroom descended into chaos. Tom, chained before the Wizengamot, writhed in agony, his scarlet eyes wide and fearful. He screamed and screamed. His voice was joined by a hundred others, shouting, bellowing; their yells, however, were not of pain, but of fear, and confusion, and hate. The woman he had seen earlier, the one who had attempted to hurt Tom, drew her wand.

She threw the first curse. Without thinking, Harry dived out from behind his desk. He sprinted down the stairs towards Tom's chair, Hermione hot on his heels. All around them, curses began to fly. Harry and Hermione ducked, weaved, dodged, and - somehow - reached the dungeon floor. Harry rushed over to Tom, still screaming. Harry grabbed the boy's shoulders as he writhed from side to side.

"Tom? Tom!" he shouted. No answer. Looking down, Harry noticed the chains were digging deep, bloody gashes into Tom's wrists. He had to get those off.

"Tom, stop!" Harry yelled. He grabbed Tom's wrists, holding them still while he tried to remove the chains-

Suddenly, Tom's chains burned white-hot. Harry jumped back, yelling in pain as the bubbling, boiling metal scalded his hands. Tom's anguished screams intensified; the chains shattered into a thousand pieces. Finally, the screaming stopped. The courtroom stood still, frozen in fear, as Tom rose to his feet. He took one hesitant step, then collapsed to the floor.

Harry rushed to the boy's prone form. He turned Tom's body over; the boy's face was paler than usual, his eyes squeezed shut. His mouth moved wordlessly.

Harry turned to Hermione.

"Hermione, I- can you-"

She shook her head silently, her expression apologetic. Harry turned back to Tom, still prone on the floor. For a moment, Harry watched the boy's silent agony, helpless.

Tom's eyes blinked open. As he sat up, he groaned, a low, pained sound.

"I know you," Tom murmured. "You're Harry Potter."

* * *

"Do you know your name?" Hermione asked, flashing Tom a sympathetic smile. There were just four of them left in the dungeon now; her, Kingsley, Harry, and Malfoy. Malfoy had flat-out refused to leave when Kingsley dismissed the court, so here he was.

"No," Tom replied angrily. "I've _told you_, I don't know anything. The first thing I remember is waking up in that tower."

"Is your name Tom?" Hermione asked. "Tom Riddle?"

"No!" Tom said. "I don't know, OK?" He paused for a moment. "I suppose Tom's as good a name as any," he added thoughtfully.

Hermione glanced, almost imperceptibly, towards Harry. She scrawled something onto a piece of parchment before her.

"Is your name Lord Voldemort?" she asked softly.

"Lord Who?" Tom repeated blankly.

Malfoy guffawed loudly.

"Well, _of course _he'd say that!" He put on a mock high-pitched voice. "Oh, don't look at _me_, I'm not the Dark Lord, I'm just an innocent little boy!"

"Give it a rest, Draco," Hermione snapped. "You're not helping."

She turned to address Kingsley.

"Minister, you can't believe this - this_ rubbish_! Voldemort's soul was destroyed nineteen years ago. Tom is _clearly_ just the leftovers from some - some twisted experiment of Voldemort's. Voldemort always said he'd taken the Dark Arts further than anyone else- this is the result."

"Minister-" Malfoy began.

"Enough, Draco," Kingsley snapped. "The boy clearly knows nothing of Voldemort. Frankly, I'm more interested in how he seems to have picked up fluent English within the course of a bad headache."

"There!" Malfoy exclaimed, seizing upon a perceived opportunity. "He speaks English! How could he, if he'd spent his entire life in a cave? Clearly, he-"

"Mere remnants?" Hermione suggested dismissively. "Harmless leftovers from Voldemort's mind."

"Leftovers?" Malfoy repeated derisively. He pulled out his wand, pointing it at the floor in front of Tom. "Serpensortia!"

A snake, conjured out of mid-air, began to slither towards Tom. Instinctively, the boy yelled in Parseltongue. Hermione's eyes widened; Malfoy grinned.

"See? He's a Parseltongue, just like his old man! And you want to just let him _walk away_? We have to kill him. It's our duty to-"

"He's not going to walk away," Harry said suddenly. "Draco, please escort our young friend out of the room. Once you're out, take him to my office."

"You're - you're sending me away?" Malfoy exclaimed incredulously. "The public won't stand for this, Potter, you saw the reaction today - they're terrified of this boy, they-"

"You are not a Ministry official, Malfoy," Kingsley said calmly. "We are, and we, not you, are qualified to make this decision. Now, please leave."

Grumbling furiously, Malfoy escorted Tom out. When he was sure they were gone, Harry turned back to face Hermione and Kingsley.

"Harry, you can't mean to execute him-"

"No, Hermione, I don't," Harry said. Suddenly, he felt very tired. "We'll send him to Hogwarts."

"What?" she asked incredulously. "He'll be hated! Parents won't want their child going to school with him!"

"It's what Dumbledore would have done," Harry said firmly. "Everyone deserves an opportunity in life. And, perhaps, a happier upbringing will prevent any sort of…darkness from ever arising."

"Yes," Kingsley said thoughtfully. "It's a good idea. Indeed, if he shares Voldemort's brains, he may even grow up to be one of our staunchest heroes, or a great healer, or-"

"Anything he wants to be, "Potter finished.

"But-" Hermione persisted- "He's the heir of Slytherin, Harry- he's _bound_ to be in Slytherin, and- well- Horace has done a lot of good work, but there's still a-well, a _culture_ in that house."

"Maybe this is what Slytherin needs," Harry replied. "If they see _Voldemort_ knuckling down, working hard and doing well, maybe they'll abandon the Crabbe and Goyle stuff."

"Maybe…" Hermione replied, unconvinced. "What will the parents _think_?"

"Lily's starting next year," he reminded her quietly. "I think that'll be enough to shut up any complaints."

"That's decided then," Shacklebolt said firmly. "He goes to Hogwarts. But until then... where will he go?"

"An orphanage?" Hermione suggested.]

"That would be like cursing ourselves in the foot," Harry snapped. "He needs a _happy_ childhood. We need to find someone to take him in."

"Harry, no one is going to take him in," Hermione said. "Look at him!"

"We could put him up in a hotel-"

"For seven years?"

"Okay," Harry replied, finally relenting. "But not a Muggle orphanage, okay? One of the wizarding ones."

"Very well," Kingsley said, standing up. "I'll leave you to arrange the details."


	3. Public Enemy I

"Snake-face!" called one girl.

"Cave-boy!" cried another.

"Hey, Voldy!" Aaron called cruelly. "You want your book back?"

The bigger, older boy held Tom's book above his head, agonisingly out of reach. All around them, children circled, laughing, pointing at Tom.

"Yes," Tom muttered weakly, his face flushing as red as his eyes.

"What was that?" Aaron asked loudly, tilting his ear towards Tom in an exaggerated, would-be-comical gesture. The other children laughed.

"Yes," Tom repeated, louder this time. He snatched at his book, but, just as quickly, Aaron yanked it out of his reach. The burly, brutish-faced teen boy laughed.

"Why d'you want it so bad, anyway? What you been reading, Voldy?"

Aaron tossed the book to the girl who had shouted 'Snake-face' earlier. Before Tom could dart towards her, Aaron grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt.

"Read it out for us, Sally," Aaron called. Sally's face contorted in an evil, rat-like grin. She opened the book.

"Hogwarts, a History," she read in a mocking, sing-song voice. Again, the children laughed loudly. "Over a thousand years ago, four great-"

"Isn't that cute?" Aaron interrupted, yanking the book back out of her hands. "Ickle Voldy thinks he's going to Hogwarts."

"I _am_," Tom muttered angrily.

"Maybe you are," Aaron admitted. "But not for long, Snakey. You don't think they'll send you straight back when they realise what a snivelling, evil weasel you are?"

Tom lunged for the book. Laughing, Aaron pushed him away, once again holding the book aloft in the air.

"You want it, my _Lord_?" he asked. "You better jump for it."

Tom's scarlet eyes glittered dangerously.

"Just give me it, Aaron, and-"

Without warning, Aaron punched Tom, catching him in the face with a massive, meaty right hook. With a cry of pain, Tom fell to the mud-stone ground of the orphanage's backyard. His head snapped back against stone; a razor-sharp dagger of pain stabbed through Tom's skull. For a moment, black, hazy shadows danced before his eyes. His vision still dizzy and uncertain, Tom tried to rise to his feet.

Aaron just pushed him back down.

* * *

"This has to end, Hermione."

Harry tossed the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ onto Hermione's desk. She glanced at it; the headline read _RIDDLE MYSTERY THICKENS: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH ORPHANAGE WORKER REVEALS THAT BOY HAS 'VIOLENT TENDENCIES'. _The headline was paired with a blurry, grained photo of Tom, standing, unawares, in the orphanage backyard; it had clearly been taken with some sort of long-range Muggle camera.

Hermione sighed.

"Harry, this is nothing we haven't seen before-"

"Look inside," Harry urged, still hovering anxiously before Hermione's desk. Leaning forward, he turned the page; page two was given over to an opinion piece – from a "Pucey Prize Winning Journalist", no less – which, in excruciating detail, described the dangers of allowing "You-Know-Two" to walk free. Indeed, as the author himself wrote, "If we do not take action now; if we do not choke the weed, before it strangles us in our sleep, what will the future generations – if any survive – think of us? Riddle is most certainly _not_ a boy, whatever the sickening, sychophantic halfwits at the Ministry (Harry Potter chief among them) may tell us; he is a creation of Dark magic – the Darkest magic, from the Darkest wizard of all time. And the Ministry plans to educate him."

The article ended with a plea from the author to buy their latest book, 'The Dark Lord: The Comprehensive Account of He Who Must Not Be Named's Rise to Power.'

"Blanket coverage!" Harry continued furiously, drawing Hermione's attention to the page three featurette on 'The Secret Politics Behind Riddle's Release From Custody'. "It's all the way through! Even the _bloody _sports pages are wondering which Quidditch team he supports!"

Hermione smiled thinly. Leaning forward, she grabbed Harry's elbow and forced him into a seat.

"Harry, we knew this was going to happen," she said soothingly. "These are – well – _unique _circumstances. Nothing like this has ever happened before; people want to know what's going on."

"But they _don't _know what's going on!" Harry exclaimed. "Tom's just a harmless boy, but they think that he's a monster."

"I _know_, Harry," Hermione replied quickly, "But there's nothing we can do. Cornelius Fudge thought interfering with the media was a good idea, and look where that got him. We just have to let this blow over. After the summer, Tom'll go to school, they'll see he's just a normal kid, and gradually, people will forget this ever happened."

"Will they?" Harry asked doubtfully, pointing to the _Daily Prophet_ again. "Hermione, they're all but calling for his head. I think we have to do something."

"Like _what_?" she asked. "If you want to start censoring the _Daily Prophet_-"

"Nothing like that," Harry said quickly. "I just want to make sure the truth is out there."

Slowly, understanding seemed to dawn in Hermione's eyes. Eventually, she spoke.

"You want to do an interview," she said thoughtfully.

"Just the facts," Harry replied. "Tom's just a boy, he's not the second coming of Voldemort, he's not evil, he isn't tearing the wings of flies..."

Harry leaned forward.

"But I need your help. Have you got any media contacts?"

Hermione smiled.

"Just the one."

"That's enough," Harry said quickly, standing up. "When can we meet?"

* * *

There she was. Framed in the doorway of the Three Broomsticks; still wearing those ridiculous jewelled spectacles, her two-inch nails still painted a horrid crimson – though her elaborate blonde curls were now streaked with grey: Rita Skeeter was older, but still unmistakeable.

"Rita!" Harry called. Seeing him, she smiled, flashing those gleaming gold teeth of hers at Harry.

"Harry!" she exclaimed as she approached his table, as if she were greeting an old, fond friend. "How long has it been – you look good!"

"You too, Rita," Harry replied politely as she took a seat at his table. Politely – and honestly; Rita was remarkably wrinkle-free for a woman of her age. "Have you had some work done?"

"Oh, bits here and there," she replied, laughing shrilly. "I go to this private place – absolutely wonderful, _so _much better than those amateurs at St. Mungo's – you know, Harry, you're starting to pick up a few wrinkles yourself, I could give you their number-"

"Drink?" Harry interrupted pointedly. He had no intention of spending any more time with this woman than he had to.

"Oh, a Gillywater, please," Rita replied, flashing those teeth again. Dutifully, Harry signalled to a barmaid; within seconds, Rita's Gillywater lay before her.

"Fantastic," Rita announced to the general vicinity, taking a long sip of her drink. "So – shall we get to the interview, then?"

Stooping, she pulled first a few rolls of parchment out of her bag, then a very distinctive quill. As she straightened up, Harry glared at her.

"That better not be a Quick-Quotes Quill, Rita."

"Oh, sorry," she replied quickly, stuffing the quill back into her bag – though there was a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Old habits, you know..."

"I'm sure," Harry replied, forcing a pleasant smile as Rita withdrew another quill from her crocodile-skin handbag. "You know Quick-Quote Quill's are banned, now?"

Rita looked momentarily perturbed.

"Well, it's not as if I _use_ it, Harry – I mean, I'm a retired girl now-"

"It's fine," Harry said quickly. "Just don't let Hermione see you with it. Now, anyway – I wanted to give an interview about-"

"The Riddle boy?" Rita interrupted. When Harry didn't reply, she grinned maliciously. "It's all _anyone _is talking about," she continued happily. "Then I saw Granger's message, and I _knew _that you wanted to put your own spin on things – er – I mean, get the truth out," she added hastily as Harry scowled.

"Yeah, I do," he replied grumpily. "So ask away. Everything the public doesn't know about Tom. Everything they _want _to know."

Rita raised a peroxide-blonde eyebrow.

"So you're on first name terms?" she asked in a deliberately acid-sweet voice. Harry could see the headline forming in her eyes already.

"Yes," Harry snapped icily. "Tom is a perfectly nice, well-mannered young boy."

Rita nodded slowly.

"Hmmm. Would you say you see yourself in Tom?"

"Rita, if you don't quit the tabloid crap..." Harry warned, half-rising to his feet. Hurriedly, she made a 'my-lips-are-sealed' motion.

"Good," Harry sighed. "Stop looking for a quick headline. This is my story, not yours."

"OK, Harry," Rita replied sweetly. "Just nice, easy loaded questions from here on out."

* * *

"Let's start with – well, the start," Rita began, laughing loudly at her own joke. "How did you find Riddle?"

Harry took a deep breath.

"I found an old – an old ruin of Voldemort's," he eventually began. "This big tower, out in the middle of nowhere. I went inside. There was no one there, but I could tell something was up, so I explored a bit."

"Where exactly was this tower?" Rita inquired.

"It doesn't matter – only I can see it," Harry said. Rita raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"So I went down to the dungeons," he continued. "It was this big, dark chamber, pitch-black. And then I felt – something, like breath, on the back of my neck, and the lights turned on."

"And Riddle was there?" Rita surmised.

"Yeah. Tom was chained up in the jaws of a massive snake statue; he was in some sort of trance. When I touched him, he woke up. He was confused, dazed; I just got him to the Ministry as fast as I could."

Rita nodded slowly.

"Uh-huh. When did all this happen?"

"About a week or so ago."

Rita's brow crinkled in confusion.

"But you killed You-Know-Who twenty years ago. How does Riddle look-"

"Believe me, I've been asking myself the same question," Harry answered honestly. "The best answer we can think of is that the trance he was in slowed his aging. Maybe stopped it completely. As to why, we can only guess. Maybe Voldemort had plans for Tom."

"Maybe he still does," Rita suggested, the gleam of a fresh story in her eyes. Harry could see it now - '_YOU-KNOW-WHO: BACK'?_

"No way," Harry said hurriedly. "Voldemort is definitely dead."

"Is he?"

"_Yes_!" Harry snapped.

"Fine!" Rita said quickly, holding her hands up in surrender. "So let's talk about Tom. Any-" she lowered her voice to a whisper- "Any _powers_?"

"No – well, sort of," Harry admitted. "He's a Parselmouth, we know that. So far, he's not shown anything else..._extraordinary_."

"But he's magical?"

"Yes," Harry said, seizing the chance to get back to what he wanted to talk about. "So we're sending him to Hogwarts. He'll get a happy, peaceful, normal upbringing there, and we won't have any problems."

"But, surely you must have some doubts about educating a boy with some unknown connection to You-Know-Who? What if he decides to follow in his father's footsteps? What if he has his father's nature?"

"I know Tom," Harry replied. "Everyone who knows him likes him."

Rita nodded slightly.

"In that case, perhaps I should talk to him-"

"No."

"Fine," she sighed. "Anything else you want to say?"

"Just that I know it's hard for everyone out there," Harry said. "Seeing Tom – seeing Voldemort again. I know what Voldemort did, the thousands of lives he tore apart. But this _isn't _Voldemort. It's a young, scared boy, who's probably terrified right now at the thought that everyone in the wizarding world seems to want him dead. When I first went to Hogwarts, I was just like Tom; alone, friendless. Just give him a chance."

* * *

"Time to break that snooty nose of yours," Aaron sneered. He lifted a huge, studded boot-

"What on _earth _is going on here?"

Abruptly, Tom heard a rush of footsteps. Hurriedly glancing to the side, he saw one of the matrons arriving on the scene, forcing her way through the snickering crowd of children surrounding him. "Fighting is unacceptable, Aaron!" she called angrily. "However could you-"

She fell silent as soon as she saw Tom.

"Oh – it's – it's you-" she murmured quietly, taking in the eleven-year old boy's bruised face, his ripped clothes, his sodden, muddy hair. For a moment, Tom was sure the matron almost smiled. But – almost reluctantly, it seemed – her training kicked in.

"Get inside, Aaron," she snapped. "Go see Mrs. Smith at once. Tell her what you did."

Still smirking at Tom behind the matron's back, Aaron skulked off. Tom's book was still clutched in his hand. As he left, the crowd began to disperse, and the matron knelt beside Tom, now sitting up on the wet ground. Tom glanced towards her; their eyes met, and, for a moment, the matron shied away.

"Are – are you alright, Tom?" she asked hesitantly. She made a motion, as if to touch his bruised face, but then thought better of it and pulled away.

"Fine," Tom replied through gritted teeth.

"Good," she replied, quickly climbing to her feet. "Good. You should try and stay out of trouble, Tom. It's probably for the best if you stay away from the other children."

And, with that, she left him.


	4. Public Enemy II

Where was he?

Meet me in the Leaky Cauldron, Potter had told Tom. So Tom had came, and - accessorised in a pair of sunglasses that hid his scarlet irises from the Muggles - he had trudged through the sodden streets of London to this dank, dark pub in the middle of nowhere. It was a peculiar place, filled with muttering men and strange creatures. When Tom first stepped through the door - his drenched, over-long mop of black hair clinging to his face and neck, his sunglasses (thankfully) removed - the place had fallen silent; although Tom was fast growing used to that. Without a word, he had hastened to a quiet, chilly corner of the bar, far away from the greedy, accusing stares. There he had sat, for over an hour now, waiting for Potter.

It had been exceedingly dull. As Tom didn't have a penny to his name, he couldn't even pass the time with a Butterbeer. He'd half-hoped the bartender might take pity on him, but, soon he realised that was never going to happen. The only thing to break up the monotony had been a drunkard who'd approached Tom. His shadow had loomed over Tom's table; Tom had looked up, and, immediately the man began to shout, screaming madness about murders, and fallen friends, and a family lost. In hindsight, Tom probably shouldn't have laughed. Still, it worked out for the best; the man had been thrown out of the bar, and Tom couldn't resist throwing him a small smirk as he tumbled, head-over-heels, through the open doorway of the Leaky Cauldron into the rain.

But that was over twenty minutes ago, and still, Potter wasn't here. Tom wasn't even sure _why_ Potter wanted to meet here – although, he half-suspected it might have something to do with Hogwarts. After all, the 1st of September was fast approaching and, still, Tom had nothing. No books, no equipment – and nothing to buy it with. He didn't even have a wand.

Truth be told, it was that last omission which worried Tom most. He wanted a wand, as soon as possible. Let Aaron and the others try to bully him when Tom could turn them all into frogs with a thought. Let Aaron whisper his whispers. _I bet you're a Squib_, the older boy would whisper over dinner. _You're a freak. That's what Squibs are – freaks._

Having a wand - and being able to use it – would finally soothe those nagging fears for Tom – fears that he was a Squib. Gradually, ever since Aaron had mentioned it, the idea had taken hold of Tom, squeezing at his insides with long, icy fingers. What if he _was _a Squib? What would he do? Tom knew enough about Muggles to know he would never be accepted by them. No, he was a freak in both worlds.

Time passed, and still, the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron stared, and muttered, and Tom could do nothing but slink further and further into his darkened corner. It felt like forever before Potter arrived. But, finally, the tall, black-haired man stepped through the doorway, swaddled in a thick black travelling cloak. Potter had two children in tow, Tom noticed; a pretty girl with red-brown hair, about Tom's age, and an older boy, the spitting image of Potter. Tom liked Potter; the man with the lightning scar was one of the few who gave Tom any respect.

Potter, still standing in the doorway, saw Tom for the first time. Potter gave a friendly wave, then strode towards the bar. As the barmaid gave Potter a welcoming smile, Potter's two children headed towards Tom's table. Tom's table was narrow, tucked away in a corner; on Tom's side was a long, padded bench that ran the length of the room, while, on the other side of the table, were two wooden chairs. It was one of these seats that Potter's son, leading the way towards Tom, took now. Immediately, he fixed Tom with a curious, hungry stare. Tom, growing rather bemused with all of this, glared back at the older boy. Finally, after a few moments, Potter's son's mouth twitched upwards in a small, mocking half-smile, and he spoke.

"James," he announced, offering a hand to Tom across the table. "How's it going, Slits?"

"Slits?" Tom repeated blankly. He didn't take James' offered hand.

"You know, 'cause of the eye thing," James replied casually. "Hey-" he leaned forward- "Is it true you can shoot lasers from your eyes?"

"_James_!" exclaimed a small, polite voice; Potter's daughter, lurking uncertainly behind her older brother. She stepped forward now; Tom budged over, and she slid into a seat beside him. "Don't be rude!"

"I'm not being rude!" James scoffed. "I'm just-"

"Everything alright over here?" Potter interrupted, arriving at the table with four Butterbeers. "Hello, Tom," he added amicably, taking a seat beside his son.

"Sure," James said quickly, as Potter passed the Butterbeers out. Tom grasped his greedily - he was parched. "Just - just getting to know each other."

"Good," said Potter, smiling. "Tom, this is James."

"Yeah, he told me," Tom muttered.

"And-" Potter nodded towards his daughter -"This is Lily," he finished. "She's starting at Hogwarts this year too."

"Hi," Lily said politely, extending a small, warm hand to Tom.

"Pleased to meet you," Tom muttered, shaking her hand uncertainly. As he turned back to Potter, his curiosity got the better of him.

"So – why exactly am I here?" Tom asked.

"Well," Potter said, smiling as he leant forward, "The start of term is coming soon, and I thought it was about time you got everything you need."

"You're buying my stuff?" Tom asked blankly.

"Sure," Potter replied casually. "And I figured, while I was here, I could get James, Albus and Lily their things too. We'll get you a wand – oh, and Lily too," he added quickly, smiling at his daughter. "After that, we'll get you some robes, all the books, everything you need, maybe get something to eat, then I'll drop you off at the orphanage. Sound good?"

"Great," Tom replied honestly, excitement rising within him. _He was getting a wand!_

"Oh – I've just remembered," said Potter suddenly. "Did you bring your letter?"

"Oh, yeah," Tom replied, hurriedly pulling the forgotten half-crumpled Hogwarts letter out of his pocket. "You want it?"

"No, you keep it," Potter said. "Just make sure we get everything, OK?"

Draining his Butterbeer, he climbed to his feet.

"Let's go then," he said, and there was a playful happiness in his eyes. "Diagon Alley."

* * *

"Here we are, Tom," Potter said, stepping away from the rapidly-disappearing brick wall. Beyond it, Tom could see an eclectic hodge-podge of shops, all strewn along a narrow, cobbled street. Potter watched Tom closely, as if waiting for his reaction; when Tom merely blinked, Potter's face fell.

"I was hoping for more of a reaction," Potter admitted as they stepped through the archway onto the alley proper. "Most people's jaws hit the floor when they see it for the first time."

"I've seen it before," Tom replied quietly. "I – I remember."

Potter frowned.

"Like when you suddenly knew my name at the trial? How does that work?"

Tom just shrugged.

"I don't get it either."

Quickly, James spotted some school friends of his, and hurried off to join them.

"See you later, Dad," he said as he left. "_Don't _let Slits get a snake."

Tom watched him go, eyes narrowed; for some reason, he already disliked Potter's eldest son. Potter, however, didn't notice anything; he was far more interested in Lily's school list.

"That was mean of James," Lily whispered in Tom's ear as Potter scrutinised his daughter's list for the thousandth time. "He shouldn't call you – _that_."

"Yeah, well..." Tom paused, forcing the bitterness out of his voice. "I'd better get used to it, don't I?"

He glanced around towards the passing crowd; even now, with the famous Harry Potter escorting Tom, eyes followed his every movement. Tom half-wished he still wore his sunglasses.

"I mean, it's not exactly going to stop, is it?" he added quietly.

"You don't like the staring?" Lily asked, following his gaze.

"No, it's super-fun," Tom retorted sarcastically. "I love being looked at like some freak-show murderer-"

"Who's a freak-show murderer?" Potter interrrupted suddenly, silencing Lily's giggles.

"No one," Tom said quickly. "Just something I read in the newspaper."

"Er – OK," Potter replied skeptically, stowing Lily's list in his back pocket. "Here's Flourish and Blotts," he added; Tom perked up immediately. "Let's get out of this rain."

They hurried inside the bookshop. Tom's eyes lit up as soon as he saw the endless magical books, stacked wall-to-wall, from floor to ceiling. Instantly, he knew he wanted to read them all; spell books, stories, histories, curses, gruesome tales – everything and anything. He wanted to _know _everything. Starting with the Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, he supposed, eyeing one of his listed textbooks. It sat on a nearby shelf. Pulling the book off the shelf, Tom eagerly flipped a few pages in; _Alohomora_, this page read. A spell for opening locked doors. He flicked to another page – a charm for levitating objects. Another – the Body-Bind curse. This was – this was – immediately, Tom forgot all of his fears of being a Squib. He was born for magic, he knew that now.

Lily, beside him, was similarly entranced. She was pleading with her father to buy her a biography of some famed 17th century witch.

"No, you can borrow Hermione's!" Potter was insisting, exasperated. "Just school books today, 'Lil. This is costing enough as it is."

"Fine," Lily sighed, sliding the book back onto the shelf.

Ten minutes later, they had everything they needed, and they stepped back out into the rain. Tom's bag was considerably heavier now that it was stuffed with spellbooks. He could barely wait to get back to the orphanage so he could read them. He'd have to keep Aaron away from them, of course, but that would be easy enough once he had a wand. And speaking of wands...

"Ollivander's," Potter announced, gazing in through the wandshop's window towards the wizened, ancient old man inside. "I got my wand from him, and my parents too, and he was old back then! He must be well over one-hundred now."

Neither Tom nor Lily replied. Tom's insides were churning so violently that he felt, if he were to attempt to speak, he would surely be sick on the cobbles, and he was sure Lily felt the same way.

"Well, in you go," Potter prompted.

Rather nervously, Tom turned the handle and slipped inside, closely followed by Lily and Potter. The darkened, musty shop was empty but for Ollivander himself. When they entered, the old man's pale-silver eyes lit up.

"Ah..." he murmured croakily, his eyes flitting from Tom, to Potter's scar, and then back again. "Most curious..."

Potter smiled thinly.

"Two for their first wands, please."

Ollivander nodded slowly, his eyes still on Tom. After a moment, he stepped from behind his desk and trotted towards the two children. For a second, Tom and Lily fought a silent battle not to be served first; but eventually, and with a prod from Potter, Tom stepped forward. He stared, uncertain, at Ollivander as the old man pulled out an enchanted tape-measure. It immediately began to snake its way round Tom's ankles, legs, wrists, head; all the while, Ollivander stared curiously at Tom, his head tilted slightly to the side, like an inquisitive cat.

"Most curious,"he repeated to himself as the tape measure returned to his hand. "A perfect likeness..."

From his sleeve, he withdrew a long, wooden wand, which he handed to Tom with an air of anticipation. Tom had a feeling Ollivander had been looking forward to this moment. However, the old man was only to be disappointed; nothing happened as Tom clutched the thin stick of wood. He wasn't sure, but Tom thought it felt...wrong in his hand. Ollivander must have felt the same way; he swiftly whipped the wand out of Toms grasp, then turned away, tottering with slow steps towards his shelves.

"No, not the same, not the same," Ollivander muttered, stretching for a seemingly-random black wand-case. "Perhaps..."

Abruptly, he turned back to Tom.

"Try this, my boy," he said, not unkindly. "Eleven inches, ash, pliant."

As Tom took the wand, he instantly knew this was the one. A rush of electricity jolted through him, causing every hair on his body to stand on end. A stream of green sparks erupted from the end of the wand, burning a hole in Ollivander's carpet.

"A fine wand," Ollivander said, smiling. "Yes, I'm sure great things lie ahead for you, Tom."

* * *

He heard Aaron's thumping footsteps long before the teenage boy arrived at Tom's door. When his door smashed open, revealing the massive, angry bulk of Aaron, Tom simply snapped his spellbook shut, sliding it surreptitiously beneath his sheets. With his right hand, hidden behind his back, he reached for the comforting warmth of his wand. He was ready.

"You know what Mrs. Smith is making me do!" shouted Aaron, pointing at Tom with a stubby, dirty finger. "She's-"

"_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_!" Tom yelled.

Aaron hit the floor with a thud. Calmly, Tom rose to his feet and walked over to the older boy. Aaron's unblinking eyes, suddenly wide with fear, stared up at Tom.

"Time to break that ugly nose of yours," Tom murmured, raising his foot.

Aaron never gave him trouble again after that.


	5. The Hogwarts Express

It had been a short, unhappy stay at Blyton Orphanage for Tom. Half the children hated him, and the rest were scared stiff of the black-haired boy. They wouldn't go near him. The nurses would barely even talk to him, so most of the time Tom stayed shut up in his room; sometimes reading, sometimes just watching the Muggle cars go by from the window above his bed. He liked watching the cars go by; often, Tom imagined himself inside them, racing along at inhuman speeds while the world flew by.

It was a confusing world outside his window. No one had explained any of it to Tom; not what those big white machines in the sky were, or why the Muggle buildings climbed so high, or why everyone's eyes were constantly glued to these little metal boxes, or... he could go on and on. All of it baffled Tom. He remembered _some _things, in that same strange way he had known Potter's name at the trial; he remembered Diagon Alley, and Borgin and Burke's, and sailing across a churning black lake towards a grand castle; but this - he understood none of it.

So the summer had passed, and now Tom sat, alone in his room once more, and there was only one day left. Tomorrow, he'd pack up his things – the clothes on his back, plus his Hogwarts stuff – and Potter would take him to Kings Cross station – after he'd put his sunglasses on, of course. Each minute would take him further from the orphanage, and closer to Hogwarts. Maybe things would be better there. Lily would be there, Potter had said so. But, on the other hand, so would that James boy...

* * *

Hermione raised her wine-glass in the air.

"To our children!" she proclaimed loudly in half-slurred tones. Ron, sitting beside her in the Weasley's sitting room, smirked; climbing to his feet, he mimicked his wife's gesture.

"To our children," he echoed. "As they slowly disappear into the distance."

"Hear, hear," Ginny laughed, clinking her glass against Ron's. "To the Hogwarts Express!"

"To empty houses!" Harry's brother-in-law replied, draining his glass boisterously. "And to empty glasses," he added as an afterthought.

"I'll get some more wine," Hermione said, tottering unsteadily to her feet. "Any requests?"

Ron and Ginny shook their heads; Hermione turned to Harry, staring into the depths of his still-full wine glass.

"Harry?"

Harry, lost in his thoughts, didn't answer. Only a sharp-elbowed nudge in the ribs from Ginny brought him back to the present.

"Harry?" Ginny prompted, smiling knowingly. "You alive in there?"

"Huh?" Harry muttered. "Oh – sorry, Hermione, anything'll be fine..."

Hermione, Ron and Ginny exchanged a meaningful, sober glance. As Hermione bustled away towards the kitchen, Ginny turned to Harry, her hand squeezing his own warmly.

"Er – Harry?" she began tentatively. "Is there something wrong?"

"What's on your mind, mate?" Ron added quickly. "You've barely said a word all day."

"It's nothing," Harry lied, taking a hurried sip of his wine. "This is nice, isn't it-"

"Harry," Ginny interrupted smoothly. "Talk to us."

After a few seconds, the intense, judging Weasley stares – inherited from their mother, no doubt – wore him down.

"I – I'm just not sure I've done the right thing," Harry admitted quietly. "About Tom, I mean."

Ginny raised an amused eyebrow.

"Your only daughter's going to Hogwarts tomorrow, and all you can think about is some boy you barely know." She rolled her eyes. "That is so Harry Potter."

"No, it's just..." Harry struggled, for a second, to explain the swirling turmoil of thoughts within him. "It's just that I'm responsible for him, and – and if anything goes wrong – if _he _goes wrong-"

"He won't," Ginny urged, squeezing Harry's hand reassuringly. "From what you and Lily have said, he seems like a completely normal boy. He'll be fine, right, Ron?"

But Ron didn't answer. His mouth opened, but, whatever he planned to say, he seemed to think better of it.

"Ron?" Ginny prompted after a moment's silence. Sheepishly – uneasily – Ron spoke.

"Look, I'm still a bit weirded out by the whole thing," Ron admitted. "I mean, he's this weird magic-clone thing – and _none _of us know what he can do, or what he wants – and he's going to go to school with our kids! I'm not sure it's a good idea," he finished tamely. Ron looked sorry that he had said anything at all - but the truth was that everything he had said had ran through Harry's mind at some point over the last few days.

"Ron, he's just a kid-" Ginny was saying.

"No, Ginny, he's not!" Ron interrupted hotly. Now that Ron had finally voiced his fears, he seemed determined to get them all out at once. "You don't know _what_ he is! We don't know if he's You-Know-Who's son, or an accident, or some magical bloody timebomb-"

Ron turned to Harry, still staring into the depths of his glass.

"Harry, you have _no _idea what is going to happen with him! What if, one day, some – some trigger just goes off in his head, and he starts killing everyone in sight?"

Ginny retorted angrily; Harry could say nothing. Everything Ron said had occurred to him; everything Ron had said troubled him deeply, every second of every day. What _if _Tom became Voldemort? And Harry had put his daughter – and his sons, and his nieces, and nephews, and countless other children – in the firing line. What if-

"What's going on?"

Hermione chose that moment to return to the sitting room, wine-bottle in hand. She found a room divided; Ron and Ginny frozen mid-argument, faces flushed, while Harry sat in silence, contemplating his most rash of decisions. Twenty years ago, he had defeated Voldemort. And, now, he had sent him to school.

"Nothing," Ron told Hermione quickly, helping her back down to the couch, easing the wine bottle out of her hand. He turned to Harry and Ginny, smiling. "Who's for a refill?"

"Me, please," Ginny said, holding out her glass, the harsh words immediately forgotten.

"Harry?" Ron asked.

"Er – yeah," Harry replied, forcing a smile. Quickly, he drained his glass, then held it out for Ron to refill. "So, Hugo and Lily's first day tomorrow," he added amicably. "What do we think?"

"Gryffindor, obviously," Ginny scoffed. "Was a Potter ever not so?"

"I'm not sure," Ron replied, a sly smile on his lips. "I always thought Lily had a Hufflepuff look to her-"

Ginny kicked him in the shins.

"Ginny, don't kick Ron," Harry mock-chastised her. Hermione burst into laughter.

* * *

Harry hurried up the orphanage steps, head bowed against the icy-cold rain. Above him was Tom's orphanage; squat, unpleasant, it stood in stark contrast with the rest of Hogsmeade. The orphanage was hidden away, down one of Hogsmeade's twisting, winding alleyways; Harry hadn't even known it had existed until a month or so ago.

As Harry reached the top of the sodden, stony steps, the orphanage's heavy wooden doors swung open, hinges squealing, the ageing wood creaking violently. Harry dashed inside; he emerged from the downpour into a cramped, austere reception area. To his left lay a row of hard-backed wooden seats; ahead of him, a long, oak desk which ran the length of the room.

Sitting at the desk was a formidable-looking, curmudgeonly matron; her nose was buried in the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_. She paid no attention to Harry as he burst, dripping wet, into the room. Stepping towards her – shaking away the drips of water trickling down the back of his neck, wiping clear his steamed-up glasses – Harry cleared his throat. Reluctantly, the matron's eyes flitted from her magazine to Harry.

"Yes?" she asked blandly.

"I'm here to pick up Tom Riddle," Harry said, stepping closer to the desk and thrusting a few sheafs of official-looking Ministry paperwork towards her. The matron's nose crinkled in distaste as Harry slid the slightly-damp parchment towards her. Sighing, she reached for a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Harry stood, fidgeting impatiently, for five minutes or so, while the matron inspected his paperwork.

Eventually, she removed her spectacles, stuffed the pieces of parchment into a desk drawer (where Harry very much doubted they would ever be seen again), and lifted her icy-grey eyes to Harry's.

"Everything seems in order," she said dismissively. "Go in, Mr. Potter."

To Harry's right, set in the wall, was a wire-mesh door; lazily, the matron flicked her wand, and the door swung open. After a moment or two, a fresh-faced young nurse poked her head out. Her eyes goggled when she saw Harry; her gaze followed the familiar path, flitting upwards to Harry's scar, lingering for a moment before, embarassed, they returned to his face.

This is Sarah," the matron drawled disinterestedly. "She'll take you to him." The matron turned to Sarah. "The Riddle boy, Sarah," she added imperiously.

"Well, follow me then," Sarah said cheerily, though she still looked a little awestruck. Suppressing a wry smile, Harry followed her out of the waiting-room into a grey, dimly-lit corridor. Despite the years, he still never really got used to being a household name. Of course, Sarah was almost certainly too young to remember the way – she probably hadn't even been born yet – but she'd have grown up with the stories, and seen the newspaper reports that had followed Harry's every move for a few years.

"So..." Harry began awkwardly, as they passed a large dining-room packed with small children, "How is T-"

"Can I have your autograph?" Sarah blurted out suddenly. Immediately, she seemed to regret it; her face flushed a deep-crimson, and she hurriedly looked away from him.

"Er – Sarah," Harry began hesitantly, unsure what to say. "I – I don't really give out autographs."

In his mind, he thought of Gilderoy Lockhart, and his penchant for giving autographs; suddenly, Harry felt himself suppressing a grin.

"Fine," Sarah replied quickly in an artificially-casual tone. "Good! That's good. It was for my sister, anyway, so it doesn't really matter-"

"But I _do _make exceptions," Harry interrupted, smiling reassuringly at the still-cringing young girl. Sarah beamed.

"Great! Great – can you sign my-"

Harry held up a finger to forestall her.

"_Please _tell me that sentence doesn't end with a body part," he warned lightly. "I don't think my wife would be too happy."

"No!" Sally exclaimed, horrified. "No, I mean – I just wanted you to sign my copy of your biography."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I have a biography?"

"Yeah!" Sarah said excitedly, delving into the book-bag tied around her waist. "It's by the same guy who did those vampire books, look!"

She held the book out; warily, Harry took it. _The Chosen One, _the titled read; Harry snorted, amused. The front page was dominated by an awful drawing of Harry; it was nearly as bad as the one Dobby the house-elf had once drawn. Nearly.

"Look," Harry said, handing the book back to Sarah, "I'll sign this, but you have to tell me one thing, OK?" As two laughing children ran past Harry and Sarah, he lowered his voice. "None of the other nurses will tell me – how's Tom doing? Really?"

Sarah's face fell instantly; she took a long time to answer.

"Is he causing trouble?" Harry prompted.

"No!" Sarah said quickly. "No," she repeated, her voice hushed. Before she spoke, she glanced around nervously. "Look, we're not supposed to talk about it, OK?"

"Talk about what?" Harry asked curiously.

"The – the _way_ Tom is treated," she whispered. "Listen, the nurses aren't supposed to talk about it – the matron says the orphanage could be shut down-"

"_What_?" Harry urged.

"Tom – Tom sort of...draws trouble to himself," Sally murmured, her voice a frightened squeak. "Because of who he is. The other children bully him, the nurses ignore him, the matron scolds him when she shouldn't-"

"Why do you let this happen?" Harry whispered angrily as more children ran past.

"I _don't_!" Sally whispered back. "But there's nothing I can do – the matron, she makes us keep quiet. She says if we were to tell anyone, the Ministry would shut us down. She said-" Sally lowered her voice even further - "She said 'why should we look after a demon'? The matron still remembers it. The _war_. Some of the nurses say she lost her husband. I think she still bears a grudge."

"How can she-" Harry began to mutter, but he was forestalled by their arrival at Tom's room.

"Here we are," Sally announced, pushing Tom's door open and ushering Harry inside. The room was tiny; Harry was pretty sure he could have touched both walls at once. The only light came from a small window, set high in the wall above a sagging, splintering camp bed. On it lay Tom; he had his wand in his hand. There was a fly on the opposite wall; with wordless, lazy flicks of his wand, Tom was causing the fly to engorge to freakish size, then shrink, over and over again.

"Hello, Tom," Sarah said, oblivious, stooping to pick Tom's trunk up from the floor. "You're going with Mr. Potter now, you'd better get up."

Slowly, Tom's eyes flitted to Harry's. Though Harry felt the familiar twinge of pain in his scar, he let his face show no sign of it and, hesitantly, Tom smiled.

"That's the spirit," Sarah breezed, ushering Tom off his bed. He already had his shoes on, Harry noticed. As the boy climbed to his feet, he pulled out a pair of Muggle sunglasses from his back pocket. Harry blinked, bewildered, as Tom Riddle put them on.

"Sunglasses?" Harry asked, fighting to keep himself from laughing. Tom frowned uncertainly.

"We're going into the Muggle world, aren't we?" the boy asked. "To Kings Cross station, to get on the Hogwarts Express?"

The words had an off-by-heart, rhythmic quality, as if Tom had been murmuring the words to himself over and over again. Harry half-suspected he had.

"Er – about that," Harry began uneasily, glancing sideways towards Sarah, still dawdling awkwardly by the door. "Sarah you give us a minute, please?"

"Er – about my book-"

"In a minute," Harry said quickly.

"Sure," Sally replied, Tom's door swinging shut behind her; then, they were alone.

"About the Hogwarts Express," Harry continued tentatively. "Listen – this wasn't my idea – in fact, I was against it – but Professor McGonagall and Kingsley, the Minister of Magic, they felt it might be better for everyone if I – if I took you straight to Hogwarts."

Tom's scarlet eyes widened in shock.

"But – that's ridiculous – everyone goes on the Hogwarts Express-" he stammered.

"I don't like it either," Harry muttered quickly. "But it's orders, so-"

"So ignore your orders!" Tom yelled suddenly. His eyes flashed angrily, and for the first time, Harry saw Voldemort in the young boy.

"I can't," Harry replied softly. "There's nothing I can do."

For a moment, Tom looked as if he were about to cry; instead, he sunk onto the edge of his bed, the springs screaming as he did so.

"Fine," Tom snapped, folding his arms petulantly. "Fine. I won't go, I'll stay here. I don't need to go, anyway, I can already do all the magic I need to."

Harry hovered uncertainly beside Tom for a moment, uncertain whether a comforting hand on the shoulder would be accepted, or thrown off. Finally, placing a gentle arm around Tom's shoulders, he eased the boy to his feet.

"No, you won't stay here," Harry said softly. "You'll go to Hogwarts. You'll make friends, and you'll have adventures, and get into scrapes, and do all sorts of crazy things. You'll have the time of your life, and soon people will have forgotten all about this. They won't look at you and see Voldemort, they'll see Tom. Their friend, their student – their equal."

"What if they don't?" Tom murmured.

"Then I'll have something to say about it," Harry said lightly. Stepping away from Tom, he seized the boy's trunk in one hand. With the other, he beckoned to Tom. Uneasily, the boy took Harry's hand.

"What's going to happen?" Tom asked curiously.

"Apparition," Harry explained. "We'll be at Hogwarts instantly."

"Wizards can do that?" Tom murmured, awed.

"Yes, they can," Harry confirmed. "But you won't be learning that for a while yet. Here we go; three – two-"

The door burst open. Sarah dashed into the room, brandishing her book wildly.

"What about my autograph?" she exclaimed.

Rolling his eyes at Tom, Harry drew a quill and ink from a pocket; Sarah's face lit up.

"Who should I make it out to?" Harry asked dryly, taking the book from Sarah's hands. "Your sister, wasn't it?"

"Er – yeah," Sarah replied, blushing furiously. "But – funny thing – her name is also Sarah, so-"

"Of course," Harry replied, smiling. He opened the book; inside he scrawled _To Sarah, don't believe everything you read. Regards, Harry Potter._ Harry handed it back to her; eagerly, she flipped it open. When she looked up again, Harry, Tom and his trunk had disappeared into thin air.

* * *

A grand, cast-iron gate, flanked by two winged boars. Perched on one of the boars was a tabby cat, with spectacle-markings around the eyes. Beyond the boars, a tree-lined avenue disappeared into the distance, and even further away-

"Hogwarts," Tom murmured, his mouth spread in an innocent, joyous smile. "How do we get in?"

Tom approached the gate uncertainly, ignoring the cat whose curious gaze was now fixed upon the boy. As the cat glanced towards Harry, he nodded in recognition. Meanwhile, Tom was rattling the locked iron gates.

"How do we get in?" he asked again, turning back to Harry. "Do we have to climb?"

"Why don't you ask the cat?" Harry suggested slyly.

"The cat- AARGH!"

Tom yelled as the cat-that-was-not-a-cat suddenly turned into an old, stern-faced woman, dressed in the distinctive robes of a teacher of Hogwarts. Tom stumbled backwards, falling into a puddle.

Professor McGonagall stared down at him. Smiling kindly, she offered him a hand up.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Riddle," she said.


	6. The Sorting

Tom watched the carriages arrive. Grand, creaking constructs of black-coated wood, tens and tens of them; each was tethered to a pair of skeletal, black-winged horses. Each carriage was packed with students, all wearing the familiar black robes of Hogwarts. As Tom watched, hundreds and hundreds of students arrived in their carriages; en masse, they poured through the open castle doors, laughing, smiling. None noticed the black-haired boy with scarlet eyes, watching them from a lonely perch high above the Entrance Hall, and – after several minutes – the flow of students into Hogwarts stopped, though a few stragglers continued to trickle into the Great Hall.

Now was his turn, Tom supposed, as Professor Longbottom (Tom was already acquainted with the staff) stepped out into the now-empty Entrance Hall; he was alone, and the Great Hall doors swung shut behind him. Longbottom looked up to where Tom waited; he waved in acknowledgement, and Tom hurried down the staircase to join him.

Last to arrive were the first years. They squelched into the Entrance Hall, drenched and dripping; evidently, they had sailed across the lake. According to Hogwarts: A History, that was what first years typically did. Tom spotted one or two familiar faces here or there as the first years hurried out of the rain; Lily, of course, her pretty face framed by her distinctive red curls, was one of them. As the first years came closer, she seemed to recognise Longbottom; she gave an enthusiastic wave of greeting, which the professor returned. Standing beside her – Tom didn't actually know the boy, but he shared Lily's flame-red hair, so Tom suspected this was one of Potter's extended family – Lily's cousin, perhaps. As Tom watched from his position, skulking nervously by Longbottom's side, the boy whispered something into Lily's ear, and she laughed.

There were other, more disturbing whisperings among the newly-arrived crowd, however. As they came to a halt in front of Longbottom, Tom heard the usual murmurs begin; he felt the usual stares, the familiar weight of curious, greedy eyes upon him. One especially-tall boy, standing near the back, nudged his friend; the tall boy leant over to whisper some snide remark, and his friend sniggered loudly.

"First years," Longbottom began, oblivious. He placed a hand on Tom's shoulder, and – with a surprisingly strong grip – ushered Tom from his side. Rather thankful that he wasn't being stared at any more, Tom joined the group of first years, squeezing in beside Lily.

"Hi," she whispered warmly, as Longbottom began to explain the Sorting ceremony to the waiting first years – Tom had read all about it already, of course. "I didn't see you on the train – how did you get here?"

"Your Dad brought me here," Tom muttered under his breath. "You know, Apparition. He thought it would be...easier."

"You _Apparated_?" Lily murmured excitedly. "Mum and Dad won't take me. They took James once, but they say I'm too young – what's it like?"

"Weird," Tom admitted. "It's like-"

"Shush back there!" Longbottom suddenly snapped, interrupting his spiel on the history of Hogwarts to stare pointedly at Tom and Lily.

"Sorry, Nev - sir," Lily said, smiling apologetically. Once Longbottom had continued his lecture, she turned back to Tom.

"Nervous?" she asked in a particularly-low whisper. "For the Sorting?"

"I hadn't thought that much about it," Tom admitted quietly. "Does it really matter which house you're in?"

"Of course it does-"

Lily fell silent as the Great Hall doors swung open for the first time. Her mouth made a little 'o' shape as she saw it for the first time; the enchanted, rain-darkened ceiling, electric-blue lightning crackling far above; the the massive, painted banners that adorned the walls, gold and blue and green; the benches, packed from end to end with hungry students, and the teachers, at the far end of the hall, sat at their own, ornate table.

"Follow me," Longbottom said, turning to lead the way into the hall. Nervously, the first years followed him. As Tom stepped into the hall, he again drew the inevitable stares; face flushing, he wilted further into the crowd of first years. In here, too, he could pick out a few faces; James Potter, at the Gryffindor table, laughing loudly with his cluster of friends; elsewhere, at the Slytherin table, a younger boy, perhaps a year older than Tom, with white-blonde hair and a pale, pointed face. Unmistakeably, this was the son of the man who had so fervently campaigned for Tom's execution at the boy's trial. Malfoy. A few whispers, carrying unexpectedly far in the sudden silence that had fallen at Tom's arrival, reached his ears.

"That's _him_! That's You-Know-Who's son!"

"Look at his _eyes_!"

"D'you think he _remembers _any of it?" one girl, sitting at the blue-clad Ravenclaw table, murmured. "All those murders..."

"Ignore them," Lily muttered suddenly. "Just ignore them."

But how could he? As they crossed the hall, walking through the narrow valley between tables towards an old, ragged hat, perched on a stool, Tom's skin crawled. The hall suddenly seemed a lot larger than it had a few moments ago; the teacher's table seemed an eternity away. Faces closed in on all sides; Tom felt cold, hot panic rising within his chest-

It was at that moment that a very strange thing happened. The first years, having reached the end of the Hall, clustered uncertainly around the old, patchwork hat which Longbottom now stood beside. A moment passed – and then the Hat began to sing.

"Of _course _what house you're in matters," Lily muttered as the Sorting Hat began its song. "Everyone in my family's been in Gryffindor. Your house is like your family here."

"Gryffindor," Tom repeated thoughtfully, thinking back to half-remembered passages of Hogwarts: A History. Was he brave? He thought he was. He'd done things; he was only eleven, and people already wanted him dead. He'd fought off the bullies at the orphanage, hadn't he? "I'd like to be in Gryffindor."

Lily said nothing; her hazel eyes seemed almost sad for a moment, as if she knew something he didn't.

"I hope you are," she whispered, as the Sorting Hat's song rose to a roaring crescendo. Once the song was finished, the whole Hall broke into applause, which the Hat acknowledged with a deep bow. After a moment, Longbottom withdrew a long roll of parchment from within his robes, and, one-by-one, he began to call the first years forward.

"Nott, Wesley," was called; the tall boy from earlier stepped forward, and was promptly dispatched to Slytherin. Nott was quickly joined at the Slytherin table by his sniggering friend, and a skinny, black-haired girl named Harper. A Macmillan went to Hufflepuff; a Davies, to Ravenclaw; several others, too, were Sorted before-

"Potter!" Longbottom called, smiling reassuringly as Lily stepped forward rather timidly. The tall, dark-haired man swept the Hat onto her head; "Gryffindor!" it promptly cried.

As Lily walked away to join the rest of the House, she flashed Tom an almost-apologetic look. And then she was gone, faded into a sea of gold-and-red, her brother's arm wrapped around her shoulders, and it was Tom's turn.

"Riddle," Longbottom said casually. At this, the Hall erupted in frenzied muttering – which was quickly forestalled by a pointed cough from McGonagall, sitting at the head of the teacher's table. The hall dutifully fell silent, though the tension was palpable. _Do we want him_, their faces seemed to ask each other. Was Tom a desirable commodity, or something to be avoided?

He stepped forward, heart thumping, though he let his face betray no sign of it. Tentatively, Tom took a seat on the small wooden stool. Longbottom placed the hat upon his black-haired head – and suddenly a voice rang out in Tom's mind, clear as day.

"Hmmm," said the Hat comtemplatively. "Isn't this strange? I Sorted you seventy years ago, Tom Riddle, and I didn't expect you to be back."

"I'm not-" Tom began, before remembering he didn't need to speak. _I'm not Tom Riddle_, he thought firmly. _Well, not the old one, anyway. I'm the new one._

"Are you?" the Hat replied. "Are you? Yes, I see now. Very strange."

For a few moments, the Hat said nothing; Tom just sat there, the weight of the entire school's gaze on him. '_Er – are you going to Sort me?' _Tom thought politely.

"I'm thinking," the Hat replied curtly. "I am a Thinking Hat, you know."

_Oh_. _Sorry._

"Let's see," the Hat continued. "What do you have in here, Tom? Let's see...there's intelligence, of course. Great intelligence, though you may not realise it yet. Yes, you certainly live up to your namesake...there's talent, yes, great talent...I see you've already been experimenting with magic..."

_'So_?' Tom thought, rather nervously.

"What do you want from life, Tom?" the Hat asked suddenly.

_What_? The question was utterly unexpected for Tom; he'd never really thought about the future before. _I guess..._

"Go on," the Hat prompted.

_I want people to stop staring at me,_ Tom thought.

"I see," rumbled the Hat's deep voice. "I see more than you know, Tom. You want to be seen not as a freak, but as a person."

_Yes_-

"But there's more than that," the Hat interrupted. "You want to be seen as _brilliant_."

_No, I don't_-

"Ambition!" the Hat boomed. "Yes, I know just where to put you-"

Tom glanced quickly to his left, to the Gryffindor table; for an instant, his eyes met Lily's.

"Slytherin!" the Hat boomed. As Longbottom plucked the Hat from Tom's head, the Hall remained silent. A few uncertain Slytherins broke into brief applause, but they were few and far between, and quickly fell silent.

"Remember, Tom," Longbottom whispered as Tom shakily stepped off the stool. "The Hat sees your potential. Your future. Great wizards have come from Slytherin."

Silently, Tom nodded his head, then skulked off to join the Slytherin table. He took a seat beside the Harper girl, though as he sat down, she edged a foot or two away from him. He was in Slytherin, like Tom Riddle – Voldemort – before him. What now?

On Tom's other side was the boy with white-blonde hair – Malfoy's son. He leant over now, offering Tom a pale hand in greeting. Tom shook it uncertainly.

"Scorpius," the boy said.

"Tom," Tom replied.

"So-" Scorpius lowered his voice- "Is it true you can talk to snakes?"

* * *

**The end of part one**


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